


How This Works

by Tomstinkerbell



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Angst, D/s, Dominance, F/M, Feels, Mention of Caning, NSFW, Sex, Submission, dom!Tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6833206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomstinkerbell/pseuds/Tomstinkerbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader decides rather quickly that it's not going to work between them, as much as she wants it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How This Works

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while ago, just thinking about what would happen to someone who fell for him in a big way during a one night stand, and wakes up knowing she's not going to get what she wants from him.
> 
> It's so-so at best, but it's done and I figured I'd post it to get it out of my WIP folder.

You’re standing in the corner of his bedroom, having already located the various pieces of clothing that had ended up all over the floor. 

Thank God for iPhone flashlight apps.

You’re dressing as quickly and quietly as you can, hoping to leave without waking him.

But you hear him stir and pat the empty side of the bed, then call your name sleepily, huskily, amazed that he even remembers it.

You still, in the act of stepping into your panties, like a fawn in the woods who hears a threatening sound.

How appropriate, since you have intimate knowledge of just how much he enjoys the role of predatory, conquering hunter.

Your quietness has not fooled him, however, and you can hear – and see the shadow of him – turning over onto his back.

Sighing with impatience, you reply hoarsely, which is a surprise although it shouldn’t have been, considering how hard – and in how many different ways - he made you scream uncontrollably last night.  It was his name that was on your tongue most often, harsh in the back of your throat at the last – when he hadn’t even told you to say it - after a long, horrible session with the school cane and a thoroughly degrading amount of begging as he hammered himself into you, lying there with your arms and the rest of your body pinned to the mattress beneath him, on that very same, very sore bum as he’d locked eyes with you, reaching down between your fevered bodies to set those agile fingers loose on your helpless, fevered flesh . . .

“Yes?”

“Where are you, and, more importantly, why aren’t you in bed with me – beneath me even better . . .?” he asks demandingly.

Damn him and that delicious contrast of rough, almost smoker’s voice – because he’d done his own share of screaming, too, although definitely _not_ begging - and his thoroughly posh accent as it settled where you least wanted it, of course, curling its sexy self around your clit as if it’d found its new home.

Should you be bold - play against type and tell him to go fuck himself?  Wouldn’t that be misleading, since you really want him to fuck _you_ , although you’re trying to save yourself the heartbreak and extract yourself in the somewhat unscathed state you’re currently in - emotionally, anyway.

Physically and sexually, you’re pretty devastated.  But you could handle that much better than the broken heart that you knew was waiting for you if the two of you got involved, even on the most casual of levels.

You could very easily fall hard for this guy.  Too easily.  Sleeping with him had been a mistake – a big one – and you couldn’t even claim that you didn’t know what you were doing.  Yeah, you were drunk, but you weren’t _that_ drunk.

But you _were_ drunk enough to avoid your conscience’s rightful nagging at you about it every step of the way, weren’t you?

Apparently so.

Should you say something polite?  Something hopeful?  Something that would convey the idea – that didn’t sound as wrong in your mind as it should have – that you’d love to see him again?

No.  You had to be strong.  Best to put this thing to bed now.

_Snicker._

Not that – despite his comment - you assumed he’d want to continue it anyway – in fact, you kind of assumed the opposite, but you know that it’s better to let him know where you stand right now, regardless.

You continue to dress, pulling your panties up over your bum with a hiss as they cling into place, reacting automatically at the way the lace drags over the painfully raised, red tracks he’s left you with, and you hear him issue that low, sputtering-car chuckle of his, letting you know that he knows _exactly_ why you gasped.

Determinedly ignoring him, you clear your throat and say what you’d planned to say if he woke up before you’d made your escape.  “Tom, I know how it works with you and your . . .  women. I won’t be any trouble.  I didn’t take any pictures; I haven’t and won’t post anything to social media.  I’d be glad to sign an NDA to that effect if you’d like to send one to me.”

As soon as you begin to speak, he sits up on the bed, unconcernedly naked, staring at you as if you were speaking Klingon, the million thread count sheets falling around him in soft, complimentary waves, automatically covering that which he might wish to be covered, not that his impressive hard on isn’t delineated clearly beneath those folds, making your mouth water as you try – unsuccessfully – not to stare at it.

Even the sheets love him and want to do as he prefers.  How could you possibly stand a chance against a man who was a real life Prince Charming – with exquisite, solicitous, gentlemanly manners – who also knew how to wield a cane with terrifyingly arousing expertise – and who could flawlessly adapt his voice – and his demeanor – to reflect that of an experienced dominant, which only meant that – actor or not - this couldn’t possibly have been the first time he dipped the toe of his finely made leather shoe into this particular pool of kink - all with absolutely devastating results?

“What do you mean?” he asks, looking – of course - beautifully confused.  Even a truly severe case of bed head only managed to make him look rakish, and therefore that much sexier.

“A couple of my friends have been in the same situation as I am now . . .  Let's just agree to forget this ever happened.  It’ll be easier overall.”

You’ve finished dressing, give him a faint smile then turn and grab your purse on the way out, relieved – _Really? That’s what you’ve decided to tell yourself?_ – that he’s not bothering to follow you, or even calling after you.

 

 

Since you got absolutely no sleep last night, you fall into bed as soon as you get home. 

Hours later, there’s a loud, insistent knock on your door.  You stumble to get it – not bothering with the robe you wished you’d bothered with when you see who’s on the other side.

There he is.  Who looks amazing even though a fucking peephole, for Chrissakes?  He’s standing outside your door in jeans and a t shirt and a leather jacket, looking like he’s just stepped away from a photo shoot.

You _so_ cannot be with this man.  It’s not even debatable, as far as you’re concerned.  He’s got you so far outclassed that it’s not even funny – it’s pathetic, and that’s just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Although you’re wearing little more than the baggy, thoroughly unbecoming t-shirt that you sleep in, you step aside to let him in, but when he enters and turns around you wonder if you might not have made a strategic mistake in allowing him into your apartment, rubbing your hand sleepily over your eyes purely so you didn’t have to watch him watching you with that intent stare of his that manages to discomfit you in the extreme every time he levels it at you.

“Ugh.  Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

For all his supposed acting ability, the man can’t do innocent for shit.

Walking away from him, towards the kitchen, you reply casually, “Like you want to strip me naked and have your way with me.”  Christ, you _must_ still be ninety-nine percent asleep or you never would have said anything that provocative to him, hoping – or rather, wishing you hoped – that he wasn’t going to take it as an invitation.  You turn near the kitchen island to look back at him, realizing your mistake automatically, crossing your arms protectively over your breasts when you feel his eyes land there, nipples tightening eagerly beneath his heated gaze.

He gives you one short, sharp “heh” before replying, his tone hard and unyielding, eyes raking over you from bare feet to bed head – and you know it doesn’t look anywhere near as good on you as it did on him.  “Oh, but I do.  And it’s _ways,_ plural,” he corrects, deceptively mild, while stalking towards you, eyes pinning you where you stand, his usual grace having taken a much more predatory turn.

He’s right _there_ , right in front of you, well before you’re ready for him to be, holding you tightly by the very cheeks he’d worn out last night – as a delicious precursor to fucking your brains out - before your mind catches up and processes that fact, those long fingers caressing the raised ridges you know from looking at them in the full length mirror in your bathroom are still an angry red, making you both whimper and shiver once, hard, in his arms.

How had he managed to get so close to you so quickly?

_Right._    The answer was there, near where you refused to allow your eyes to light.  How could you have forgotten those impossibly long legs, the same ones that had deliberately entangled themselves with yours last night - holding them slightly further open than was comfortable for you, making you feel just that much more vulnerable to him because of it - for him to take possession of you - more completely, more insidiously than any man ever had before or ever will again, you’re quite sure.

Which is part of the problem.

That stark realization just makes you that much more determined to reject him, to save yourself from the pain you know he represents to you, if not now, if not even in the next few months - which you imagine would be complete bliss if you spent them with him – but, eventually, this man will hurt you – intentionally or not, and you’d bet most of what you had on the latter - in a way from which you seriously doubt you’ll be able to recover.

Better to deny – hurt? - him - and you - now than for it to be a thousand – a billion – times worse later, because you knew that, if you allowed the worst to happen, and you two became involved then broke up, _you_ would be the one who would be brought to your knees by it.

_Not_ him.

Just from your short acquaintance, as well as what your friends had said about him - even those he hadn’t seen more than once - you could tell that Tom was a wonderful, loving, affectionate, generous man who was apparently also a frighteningly effective dom – demanding, exacting, quietly powerful and secure, able to coax the best from his sub with an expressive word or look.  He made you _want_ to do anything he asked, to please him in any way you could – even if it was to take a stroke that you didn’t think you could bear.

And, inevitably, another one after that . . .

That combination of intelligence, power and grace, of caring dominance and the fact that he was equally willing to effortlessly, seamlessly marry those agonizing strokes with consummate pleasure - he could be downright addictive, if you let him.

But you won’t.

You can’t.

It takes everything in you to do it, and you’re really not even sure how you’re able to, but you refuse to allow yourself to melt into his arms, as you so desperately want to, and instead stand rigidly still within his possessive embrace, saying forcefully, “No, Tom.”

He lets go of you instantly, hands in fists by his sides, as if that’s the only way he’s able to keep control of them.  But he’s scrupulously not touching you anywhere, although he hasn’t moved away from you at all.

“I completely respect your ‘no’, but I would also ask you to reconsider, please.”

“No.”  Much softer, but still firm enough to get your point across.

You can see his jaw working impatiently, which might have been a cause for concern with another man, but not him.  “May I know why?  Did I push you too far last night?”  He looked stricken, sickened at the thought, gaze at you hard, as if he could tell just by looking at you and whispering huskily, as if he could barely stand to form the words, “Did I really hurt you?”

Wanting him not to worry on that score, you reassure him, “No.  You did not.  I’m fine.”  _Well, my butt kills me every time I sit down, but that’s to be expected_ , you think.

_And I’m also fine for having met the man I could love for the rest of my life, knowing at the same time that he has no room in his life for me, nor is he in the least interested in creating that room._

“And before you become concerned about it, I fully consented to everything we did, so no worries there, either.”

“Then why?” he asks achingly, finding your eyes.

Yours skitter away from his, and his hand automatically comes up to cup your chin and force you to meet them, but then it falls to his side, however reluctantly.

You can see his dominant side come to the forefront, and when he speaks, you can tell how rigid his jaw is.  “Tell me, please.”

You move away from him, not because you’re afraid of him – you’re not.  You just want – need – _have_ – to put some distance between you.  He’s . . . disturbing, and all the more so because you’re actively thwarting him.

All you can think of is him lifting you carefully into his arms, then throwing you down on your bed, which is probably about three steps away for him, and _making_ you tell him what he wants to know, in any way he can.

And, after last night, you’re quite sure that he could come up with some _very_ imaginative ways of doing so . . .

He’s turned to face you.  He hasn’t followed you as you stand across the room from him, but he doesn’t look happy.

Which you struggle to remind yourself is _not_ your problem.

“Look.  What I said this morning really is pretty much it.  You’ve been . . . involved – no, that’s the wrong term.  You’ve fucked several of my friends – some on a couple of different occasions - and they would have loved to have had it become more.  And they let you know that, in no uncertain terms, at least according to them.  But then they never heard from you again.”  You frown, continuing, “No, that’s not quite true, either.  You and Rae – Landers – had a bit of a thing – more than a couple of dates that she thought went fine - but then you went off to shoot some movie and she never heard from you again.  Are we sensing a pattern here?”

He sighed angrily.  “Look, with Rae, and I’m sure the other women you mentioned, I made absolutely certain that they knew that it was nothing more than a casual encounter.”

“Oh?  Like you made sure with me last night before you tore up my backside and then were balls deep inside me?”  He managed to look abashed.  “Because I don’t remember much conversation at all between us, even after we got to your place, except you issuing orders and me obeying them – or being made to severely regret it if I didn’t.”

This time when he sighed, it sounded more defeated, and you watch him run his hand through his hair, which of course only makes it – and him - look better, somehow, with it looking a bit rumpled.

“I didn’t give you that speech because I knew even then that I didn’t want it to be that way between us.  I knew it from the moment I met you – hell, I barely spoke to anyone else all evening.”

Tom begins walking towards you, and you stand your ground, although you have to fight the urge to back away from him.  He looks so serious, brows furrowed as if he’s thinking hard, and you have a hunch he pretty much is always thinking hard about something.

“I want something more with you.”

“Rita, Skylar, Pam, Chloe . . . shall I fill in the girl’s name at the end of that sentence for you?”

He is very near you now, frowning fiercely down at you.  “Do you think I’m the type of man who’d say that to a woman when he didn’t really mean it?”  He didn’t wait for you to answer, giving you a considering look.  “Well, obviously you do.”

“If the meme fits . . .”

He looks hurt.

But then you remember, he’s an _actor._

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Tom, and I’m not trying to be a bitch, either, and if that’s how I’m coming off, I’m sorry.  I’m really just trying to protect myself from you.”

He straightened jerkily at that.  “Then I _did_ hurt you.”

You can’t meet those eyes any longer and look down.  “Not yet, you haven’t.”

“I’m at a loss.  I must be an idiot because I can’t follow your logic.”

“You’re – “  How could you say it?  Sexual catnip?  Cocaine?  Heroin?  All three rolled into one – and you’re afraid you’ll become severely addicted and you’re pretty sure there aren’t any Hiddles Rehab Centers around, and that Dr. Drew would laugh you out of his office.  “I like you.  A lot.  Too much.  God knows I – I want you.”  That confession brings his head up, and he doesn’t look anywhere near as defeated as he had.  “All the time.  Even right after I’ve just about died in your arms that last time, the hunger is there.  As I was walking out of your flat this morning.  I barley know you, but I _dreamt_ about you while I slept in my own bed.”  You refused to admit that you want him just as much while you’re standing there. It’s bad enough that you’d admitted what you had to him.  “It’s all too much for me – especially since I know that our life goals – at this point in time and for who knows how long - are diametrically opposed.

“I’m in a solid, steady job, and I want to find someone to settle down with – get married, have kids.  I don’t usually do what I did with you because I’m not that person any more.  Not that there’s anything wrong with casual sex or anyone who practices it – more power to them.  I made an exception last night with you because I saw something in you that I wanted to experience.  And it was an _incredible_ experience.  As a dom, you’re . . . “  You can’t even begin to express it in a manner that would do him any justice, mouth open, hands gesturing uselessly.

He crosses his arms across his chest and takes that much too familiar power stance, a small smile playing about his lips as he inclined his head towards you.  “As were you as my sub,” he murmurs graciously.

“As _a_ sub,” you correct him and he frowns again, not liking that you made that distinction, but you were/are hardly his.  You decide to woman up and try to tell him what last night was like for you.  “It was . . . transcendent.  You brought me to places in sub-space that I’ve never been before.  I took more from you – _for_ you – than I have ever for anyone in my life, and I’ve had long term D/s relationships where I couldn’t have done what I did for you last night.  You are a magnificent dom – what all doms should aspire to be.”

Although you can tell he’s very pleased at your words, he merely nods his head once at your lavish praise, saying, “I don’t think I can respond much to that without sounding as if I’m full of myself, so, I’ll just say thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  I hope that the woman you end up with eventually has a sub side.”

“But that will _not_ be you?” he asks pointedly.

You laugh louder than you should have, judging by his expression.  “I’m sorry.  That’s the crux of the problem, see.  Last night was a . . . a wrong turn . . . a dead end road in my journey.  As much fun as you and I could have together –“ you stop and stiffen a little as he comes closer to you, and you can feel the masculine scent and heat of a body that you already know intimately, as well as smelling his heady cologne “ – it’s not the kind of fun I want to have any more.”

The lie slips from your lips as easily as Frogger falls off a log – when you play it, anyway.

But you press on, regardless.  “There’s no future in it for me.  It’s fun and games, no more, and I understand that that’s what you want at this point in your life – you’re a successful actor with the world at your feet - and that’s fine.  But you’ll have to have fun with someone else, because I want more than I’d bet you’re willing to give right now.”

He raises his eyebrows.  “You’re making a lot of assumptions about me after knowing me for one night.”

You nod once.  “I stand corrected.”

Tom comments audaciously, under his breath, “Not now, but you could be later.”

You refuse to acknowledge that delicious threat and the tingling that begins in parts of you you’d rather ignore because of it.  “So I’m wrong about you?  You’re actively searching for the love of your life?”

“Isn’t everyone?” he hedges.

But you’re not afraid to call him on it.  “That’s a copout and you know it.”

Tom turns away from you, head down, the breath exploding out of him as he stiffens, obviously angry.  “You’re right.  It is.  I’m at a crucial point in my career and I don’t want to be tied down in any way.  I want – I _have_ – to be free to do what I need to do – to go wherever to audition or film or do press, to spend months even years away from home if the job calls for it . . .”  Then he turns, suddenly, to take another step closer to you, and he’s practically occupying the same space you are now, yet he’s still not touching you anywhere.

Parts of his feet are just outside yours, his body bent away from you a bit to avoid contact, his head up, eyes taking in every bit of you as his hands outline you – you profile, your hair, your breasts, your hips . . . all scrupulously without touching you.  His lips hover over yours as he leans in a bit and whispers hungrily.  “But I want you,” he purrs.  “I _want_ you, like I’ve never wanted any woman in my life.  I don’t know if it’s just lust or true love masked as it, but I’ve been hard since I met you last night.  I’m thirty-five.  As much as I might want to, I can’t usually cum more than once a night – twice if I’m lucky.  I need time to recover.  But I took you four times last night, and I awoke fully capable of taking you a fifth, if you hadn’t already been halfway out the door.”  He reaches out and finds your hand, bringing it to cover the bulge in his pants, which is even more impressive since you know what’s behind it.  “Right here, right now, I’m ready for another four or five, as you can tell.”

Oh dear God, you certainly could!  The man was hard and heavy against your palm, and you swear you could feel his cock throbbing beneath your touch – you definitely felt it jump when your hand covered it.

But – unlike a lot of men in this situation - he didn’t grab at you.  He didn’t touch you in any way – except to put your hand on him then let go - his hands kept scrupulously at his sides, if still clench fisted.  Instead, he almost relaxed, letting his eyes drift shut on an uninhibited groan as you couldn’t keep your wanton fingers from caressing him, following the clearly delineated contours of his massiveness, and remembering as you did so how it felt to have what was twitching beneath your hand hammering powerfully into you, making you need to gasp to catch your breath each and every time after he withdrew and plunged again . . .

And he wasn’t the only one standing there with eyes closed while you panted, as he gasped and groaned, aching with need as his hips rolled forward, pressing himself against your hand, further into your cupping palm . . .

And all you wanted out of life at this moment was to tug down the zipper that was holding him at bay to release him into your mouth or your pussy – you didn’t much care where, as long as he was inside you somehow.

You open your eyes and see that his are still closed, his whole body both boneless and rigid at the same time as you continue to squeeze and rub him through the fabric of his jeans.

But you know – deep in your heart – that you’re just delaying the inevitable, and your hand slows to a stop, prompting his eyes to flutter slowly open, and he is looking at you, pupils blown, jaw set, the very picture of anguished desire.

For a long beat, you simply stare into each other’s eyes.

Then, forcing yours to fall from his, you find the strength to remove your hand from that now throbbing bulge and take a step back, away from him, murmuring, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have done that, because nothing you’ve said has contradicted me in any way – in fact, you’ve just agreed with every conclusion I drew about you.  Desire isn’t enough for me – I want more.  I deserve more, and I won’t settle – even if it’s for an affair with you.  It could too easily become so much more for me than just sex with you – but I won’t put myself through that, knowing there’s no future in it.”

You see his arms come up suddenly, as if to grab you and haul you against him, but they drop gain almost immediately in defeat.

You hear yourself speak, but can barely believe the words that are coming out of your own mouth.  “I think it would be better if you left now, Tom.”

He opens his mouth, and for a second your eyes dart to his, only to look away immediately at the pain and confusion you see there, and seconds later you hear his mouth close with a click.

On a resigned sigh, he whispers, “I’m going.  I’m sorry . . . “  He stops there, as if he can’t find the words to go on.

_Right._   Tom Hiddleston can’t find the words. 

Instead, he walks slowly to the door, his eyes on you the entire time.  Hand on the doorknob, looking down, he says quietly, “You’re right, you know.  About how it would be – how it has to be.  I wish it – I wish I could be different.  But I can’t.  Not right now, when things are just beginning to really gel for me – for my career.”

Trying – unsuccessfully – to hold back tears, you nod.  “I understand,” you whisper.

“No,” he replies, his voice at least as choked as yours.  “I don’t think you do.  I’m leaving you now, when every cell in my body is telling me to grab you and rip that shirt off you and _brand_ you – indelibly – as mine, in any way I can – fucking you, dating you, collaring you, marrying you – anything, as long as it binds you to me for . . . always. “

He groans, resting his forehead against the door.  “But, if I think about it with the head that’s on my shoulders, I know -  just like you do – that that would just end in us hating each other eventually – you feeling neglected and rightfully jealous of my work, and, if I’m ruthlessly honest, there’s also the possibility that I might eventually becoming resentful of being tied to you.  As much as I want you – and I do – at this point in my life, my work would always take precedence.”

You hear him swallow, painfully, from across the room, you swear.

He’s looking away from you as he speaks, gruffly, as if every word is torn bodily from him.  “But I will _always_ want you.  I might fuck other girls – “ he has the grace to grimace and be truthful – “I _will_ fuck other girls,” then added through clenched teeth, “as you will fuck other men.”

Then he turns his head to catch your eye, seeing the tears streaming down your face, reflecting the ones that are shining brightly in his own eyes, his words choked – strangled - by suppressed emotion.  “But I will be thinking of you the entire time, wishing it was you.  I don’t know how I know this after such a short acquaintance, but I know without a doubt that those women will only be proxies – cheap, unsatisfying vermeil copies – of you.”

With that, he opens the door and leaves, closing it behind him not with a loud, angry slam, but rather quietly, sedately.

Resignedly.

And you – you crumble to the floor where you stand, burying your face in your hands and sobbing inconsolably as you can hear the footsteps of the man who could have been the love of your life walking away from you forever.


End file.
